Background Information: Infektion is about a mysterious disease that grips Germany in early 1944, and manages to turn three quarters of the population into flesh-eating, mindless zombie-like creatures. It is left up to five regular German soldiers; A farm-boy from the Kriegsmarine (Navy), two green recruits from the Wehrmacht (Army) , a hot-headed Seargent from the Waffen-SS, and one rational and friendly Major from the Luftwaffe (Airforce). All five must team up with scientists and even old enemies to fight the spreading disease, and to save Europe.
Name: Mike Brady.
Setting: What is the setting of your story? 1943-1946.
Genre: Horror.
Hello all!
I've been looking around from forum to forum trying to find a place to share a story I've been writing. I thought I might try here because, well...Its a world war two forum! The story itself is named 'Infektion'. Infektion is about a mysterious disease that grips Germany in early 1944, and manages to turn three quarters of the population into flesh-eating, mindless zombie-like creatures. It is left up to five regular German soldiers; A farm-boy from the Kriegsmarine (Navy), two green recruits from the Wehrmacht (Army) , a hot-headed Seargent from the Waffen-SS, and one rational and friendly Major from the Luftwaffe (Airforce). All five must team up with scientists and even old enemies to fight the spreading disease, and to save Europe.
It'd be great if I could get any of you guys to download the PDF and have a quick look over what I''ve done so far.
Unfortunately, I'm not a very good editor, and I may have left out a few errors in the first chapter.
So, I hope any of you guys can take a quick look. I've enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it!
Regards,
Mike.
(The blog can be found here:
Infektion )
So, here is the prologue for your enjoyment:
INFEKTION
June, 1942
The Captain looked out over the waves. Some were quite large, and when they hit the boat, they sent it pitching and rolling. The other smaller waves hit the ship’s iron hull, and disappeared under the wake. The sun was just beginning to set after a stormy day at sea, and the captain was worried. He was sure there was a storm coming, because the clouds in the distance looked drab and grey, and the waves were getting even bigger, but he had to press on. The U-162 pitched and rolled again, as another huge wave cracked over the coning tower. The captain was beginning to tire of the pitching up on deck, so he notified the Watch Officer and carefully climbed down the hatch. Almost half a gallon of water went down with him as another monstrous waves hit the ship. The captain’s face was old and weathered, but not nearly as weathered as his cap and sweater. He was soaked, and yet he was not cold, but he wished he was having a hot shower nonetheless. Unfortunately for him, type VIIc U-Boats were not fitted with showers, and only had one bathroom which only had a sink. The captain thought of using it to wash up, but he knew Frittmann or Werlinger would be in the bathroom meticulously grooming themselves before they went on watch. Those two must have been the only ones on board that actually cared about their hygiene. The rest of the crew was either too busy or tired to wash up. The captain walked over to the Chief Engineer.
‘Its getting pretty stormy up there. I’m thinking of taking her down to periscope depth a little later; stop the rolling a bit, you see...’ He trailed off and wiped the water from his eyes.
‘The crew are getting a bit upset sir...the banging from the torpedo room is getting unbearable. A lot of the crew can’t sleep at night. On top of this, diesel number one has blown a gasket case, and I need spare parts from the nearest re-supply boat. What boat was that Blaumer?’
Michael Blaumer looked up from the navigation map for a minute to answer the chief.
‘The U-661 sir. She’s headed for St Nazaire, and we can raise her on the wireless any time before Monday, when she’ll be out of range.’ Blaumer looked tired. He yawned, but went back to studying the charts. The captain yawned too.
‘What was that about banging in the torpedo room, Chief?’ he asked casually. The captain had been told many times about it, but he still couldn’t wrap his head around it.
‘Captain, the cargo we received from Norway is....It’s making noises. It bangs and moans and gurgles and cracks against it’s steel casing. It’s tormenting the crew. Plus, the correspondent on board who’s in charge of it can’t tell us a bloody thing. We’re left in the dark with a shouting box, and a restless, demoralised crew.’
‘Not to worry Chief. A few days at the cathouse will cheer those boys up. Besides, it’s only another day’s journey before we reach St. Lorient. We’ll re-stock, and that box, ‘whatever-the-hell-it-is’ will be off the ship for good.’
The captain smiled reassuringly, a rare moment indeed. But the chief was still unsure. He sighed, and headed for the engine room, to deal with the damaged diesel engine.
‘Take us to periscope depth. We’ll ride this bloody storm out underwater.’ The captain commanded.
‘Jawohl Herr Kaleun!’ came the Bootsmann’s reply. Within five minutes the ship was cruising 5 meters below the ocean surface, at 7 knots. It was calm and quiet now.
*
It wasn’t so quiet for the crew in the bow compartment though, who could hear the banging coming from the bow torpedo room. Frittmann had just come out of the bathroom, having spent a good few minutes cleaning his nails and plucking his eyebrows. Someone snorted in their bunk.
‘Oh look guys, its Madame Bijou come back from the salon!’
‘Had a nice warm steam-bath have we Madame?’ someone else added.
‘I always said U-Boats should be fitted with nail salons and barbers, but apparently, HQ wouldn’t let us!
‘Ja, the Tommies might capture Werlinger’s toenail clippings!’
A few crewmen laughed, but Frittmann ignored them.
‘That thing still banging around in there?’ He asked. He didn’t really need to ask, because he could hear the clanging and gurgling coming from the torpedo room. In front of the hatch stood a guard, who had come on board with a correspondent and the box itself.
He wore a Waffen-SS uniform, and carried an MP40 submachine gun. What was weird about this SS-man was that his collar was painted bright red, and his cap insignia bore the name
‘Infektionskontrolle’.
The guard was smoking a cigarette and writing in his journal.
‘Infection control.’ Frittmann muttered.
‘What bloody infections are there to control anyway?’
‘Try Johanne’s crabs!’ Hans Dreber shouted out.
Once again there was uproar in the cabin as all 15 men inside laughed and joke about poor old Johanne Gruber, who had crabs, and had to be suspended from the boat for a few weeks.
‘Alright guys. I think it’s time we had a look at our ‘whatever-the-hell-it-is’. The box had earned itself a nickname; ‘whatever-the-hell-it-is’, and it was the constant source of jokes among the crew.
‘Well how do you expect to do that with ol’ Mr. Oberstgruppenfuhrer here guarding the hatch?’
‘Ach zum Teufel, we’ll distract him. Besides, it can’t be too hard! We’ll get Cookie to make up some bean soup for him, and we’ll sneak in.’
‘Well we can’t all go in to have a bloody look!’ Frittmann laughed.
‘Ok. So, Frittmann, Struesse, and Aust can go take a look. Tonight.’
Aust looked up from his book. He rolled his eyes and went back to his paragraph.
‘Fine then. Where is Strusse anyway?’
‘He’s on watch. The kaleun wanted him on first thing tonight because of his little shenanigan the other day...’
Streusse had laced the navigator’s coffee with a laxative. Unfortunately, it was the chief who took a sip from the cup while the nav was checking calculations on the maps.
‘ I don’t think the chief will ever forgive him! What a nasty trick!’
‘Relax. Steusse is a good sailor, he’ll make up for it somehow.’
‘I can just see him now, fired out of the torpedo tube and swimming for a British convoy, sinking the ships with his bare hands, and all for the affection of our chief.’
‘Serves the bastard right.’ Frittmann said as he snuck into his bunk.
‘Ok. Tonight at the first watch, me and Aust will go take a look. Streusse can keep watch.’
‘Well, don’t expect any....’
Aust trailed off as a long and blood-chilling moan came from the torpedo room, followed by a disgusting gurgling.
‘Mein gott, what the hell was that!?’ Dreber shouted.
‘We’ll soon find out, jedermenn. We’ll soon find out.’ Frittmann said calmly.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror, corrected one lock of his blonde hair which had swung low over his brow, and silently drifted to sleep. All the while, the shrieks and moans from the torpedo room continued, followed by the usual banging and clanking. The mystery was soon to be solved, and Frittmann had nightmares all the while he slept.
*
Frittmann jolted upwards, smacking his head on the upper bunk. He shook off the dull pain, and quietly snuck out of his bunk. He didn’t have to try to be so quiet, because half the men in there were awake anyway; the box was still moaning and groaning. Frittmann crept over to Streusse and shook him awake. He also woke up Aust, and headed for the torpedo room hatch. The SS guard was asleep in a bunk next to the door, and was snoring loudly. The bow quarters were lit with a soft red light, which bathed the grey interior of the submarine with a splash of red. The first watch had begun almost five minutes ago, and it was now exactly Twelve O’clock. The three men sneaked toward the hatch, and began to quietly open it by turning the sealing valve. It finally opened with a soft hiss, and Frittmann and Aust crept inside. Streusse stayed outside the room to keep watch in case the guard should stir. Inside the torpedo room, it was cramped and dark, but the noises were louder than ever. They even began to sound like a person was making the gurgling and moaning noises. The box was nowhere to be seen though, so the two men split up to find it. Finally, they found it on top of one of the electric torpedoes towards the rear part of the room. The torpedo room was lit also with a red light a night-time, so it made the entire place look menacing and haunted. Red shadows stuck out at the men, and the wild, unrelenting howl coming from the box was almost unbearable to Frittmann. The box itself was exactly the same size as a small coffin, and was covered in a red flag, which was covered in the menacing black shapes of a swastika. Aust quietly began to removed it, and Frittmann wiped the sweat from his brow.
He took a step backwards, and accidentally knocked a spanner off one of the many shelves that lined the iron walls of the torpedo room. The bang shocked Aust, who fell forward onto the box. Instantly, the moaning and gurgling coming from the coffin stopped. The banging and the moaning which had so tormented the crew of the U-162 had ceased. Outside in the bow quarters, the crew that were awake smiled. The noise had finally stopped.
Aust picked himself up from the box, and shuddered when he realised that flag that draped over it had caught on a bolt and ripped right down the middle and through the heart of the swastika that adorned it. Frittmann let the sweat run down his cheek. He sniffed, and then reached out for one of the bolts that secured the lid. He grabbed a wrench from the nearby tool box, and began to slowly twist the bolts. He finished turning one, and the box suddenly jolted sideways. Frittmann looked at Aust. Both felt uneasy, but they kept on twisting off the bolts of the box. Finally, the last one was unfastened, and the lid popped off with a hiss. Aust slowly lifted the lid up, and put it down on the floor. The two men strained to see the contents of the box in the dark, and slowly leaned forward. At that moment, Streusse came into the room with a thud.
‘The guard’s awake! He heard you!’
The guard pushed the hatch open and lifted up his MP40.
‘What are you doing Bootsmänner! Get away from there this instant!’
A deep gurgle echoed around the damp confines of the torpedo room. The guard pointed his MP40 at the two men standing over the box.
‘Is the lid open?’
Frittmann looked at Aust, his eyes reddened by the light. He drew a long breath and stepped away from the box. Another gurgle resonated around the room, and it was followed by a terrible moan.
‘Is the bloody lid open, Bootsmänner!?’ the guard repeated. His voice sounded angry and commanding, and yet Frittmann detected a hint of fear.
‘Uh...Ye....Yes sir, it’s open...’ Frittmann stammered.
The guard dropped hisMP40. His eyes widened, and he turned away from the men in the room. He ran towards the open hatch, and kept running towards the stern of he submarine.
Frittmann looked over at Aust, but Aust was gone. Little over five seconds ago, Aust had been standing there, and now he wasn’t.
‘What the hell Aust? Where did you go?’
Frittmann turned to face Struesse, but he too had disappeared. Frittmann was now getting worried. He looked into the box, and saw nothing but an empty coffin. The floor was bathed in red light, and the iron gratings were slippery from the water that had seeped through the torpedo tubes. Frittmann went for the hatch, but he slipped before he could make it. He got up and walked towards the light switch. There was a deep gurgle and another moan that echoed through the room.
The hatch was only ajar, and the rest of the crew outside were wondering what had happened. Frittmann reached for the light switch, and turned on the electric light. Instantly, the red light dimmed, and the whole room was bathed in an intense, white light. Frittmann walked back over to the box, and looked inside. There was still nothing, but he could see now that the box was covered in a phlegm paste that was mixed with blood, and that the floor gratings on which he was standing were covered in blood and a disgusting green foamy paste. He wretched, and managed to hold back the contents of his stomach. Frittmann peered over the side of the number one torpedo and spotted a familiar shape; it was Aust. He was lying between a torpedo and the ship’s hull. His eyes were a bright red, and his mouth was foaming. Blood dripped from a fresh wound in his neck. At that moment, the hatch slammed shut, and Frittmann let out a long and ghastly yell. He ran for the hatch and tugged at it to open, but he failed. He began hitting at it, and the sleeping crew were awoken by his yelling and banging at the door. They just rolled over and tried to get back to sleep.
‘Pity that thing had to start up again’ laughed Dreber.
Frittmann ran over the blood pools on the floor gratings, and picked up the spanner he had dropped earlier.
‘Who’s there? Who the hell is it? What are you doing? Come out here now!’
He cautiously walked around the narrow confines of the room, clutching the spanner like a weapon. A droplet of water landed on his shoulder, and Frittmann looked nervously at it. Although, it wasn’t water. He wiped some off on his finger, and noticed that it was a green foamy paste. A look of shock came over his face, as he slowly arched his head upwards. At that moment, a man fell on him from the roof of the room and he smashed his head on the ground, and he was killed instantly. His blood pooled on the gratings, and dripped through the holes in the floor.
*
The ship was rocked by another wave, and the men in the control room worked away busily at their controls. Something was wrong in the ship, and the chief could sense it. He sipped his coffee, and went back to reading his copy of ‘Signal’ magazine, which detailed the supposed ‘Ultimate victory on the Eastern front’. The chief scoffed, and swilled the coffee in his mouth. It had been a long night, and he just wanted to relax. What happened next made him even more concerned than before. The ship’s electric power failed, and every light went out. The inside of the control room was veiled in darkness. The cheif went to stand up, and hit his head on some unknown surface.
He swore as he got up.
‘Helmsman! What the hell’s happened?’
‘I’ve no idea chief. I think a battery’s blown or something.’ Came the helmsman’s reply.
‘God dammit! Is this damn ship cursed or something!?’ shouted the chief.
The captain burst into the room holding a flashlight, and he shone it on the faces of the men in the control room.
‘What happened chief?’ he asked calmly.
‘Im...Im not sure. We’ve just had some sort of power failure...I think a battery’s blown out.’
‘Well, go take a look. We’ll have to stop. Knapp, tell the engine room crew to shut off both diesel engines. We’ll repair this power failure and get back underway as soon as we can.’
‘Jawhol herr Kaleun!’ came Knapp’s reply, as he disappeared aft.
Someone else entered the room. It was the correspondent who had come on board to make sure the mysterious cargo was safe through the journey.
‘What has happened, captain?’ he asked.
‘Nothing Mr. Halderstadt, just a power failure. I suggest you return to your quarters lest you bump into something in this darkness.’
‘Indeed. I shall simply go and fetch Herr Bahner from his guard post and he can help with your electricity issues.’
‘Thank you Mr. Halderstadt. We should be underway in a few minutes.’
Mr. Halderstadt made his way forward towards the torpedo room, only to find he SS guard Bahner not there. Halderstadt turned around to leave, but he was distracted by the hatch door. It was swinging open and closed with each roll of the ship. Halderstadt let out a gasp of horror; the room was open.He ran aft as quickly as he could to tell the captain. If the cargo escaped, the whole crew would die, and he would die with them. He was nearly at the control room when he tripped over something big on the ground. The man lay there for a minute or so, before he finally picked himself up to shine his torch on the object. It was the body of the SS guard. Bahner had been slashed repeatedly by some sort of object, and had had a fair amount of his neck flesh torn away. In its place was a gaping wound, still fresh, and bleeding over the floor.
‘No....’ breathed the distressed Correspondent.
‘No no no no no!’ he began to shout.
The guard was now foaming at the mouth, and the greenish paste trickled down his face and onto the floor. The correspondent ran back to the bow quarters where the men were sleeping. He shook one awake, but took a step back when he shone his light on the man’s face. The sailor was staring blankly at the ground, and his neck was torn and bleeding. His mouth was foaming, and it was collecting on the Correspondent’s shoes. Halderstadt let out a yelp and ran forward, straight past the place where Bahner’s body was, but he realised it was no longer there. All that was in his place was a puddle of blood and foam. The correspondent now yelled, as he ran as fast as he could for the control room. He ran through the main hatch and slammed it shut after him, locking it with the sealing valve. He turned to the captain:
‘Sir, you crew is....’
He trailed off. The captain was lying on the ground, bleeding. His beard was covered in the foam that came from his mouth, as was the chief, who had fallen forward and spilled his coffee all over the navigation charts. Halderstadt gasped. The entire crew inside the control room was lying dead at their posts, bleeding from their numerous gaping wounds, and foaming at the mouth. The ship was absolutely silent. She continued to be rocked by the massive Atlantic waves, and she was pushed forward by the strong currents. The howling wind outside was deafening, and the roaring waves were colossal, but something pierced the winter wind; a shrill shriek of terror from Mr. Halderstadt, who was stuck inside a floating iron coffin, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. The boat continued on its way, and bobbed like a cork in a bath tub. It began to rain heavily, and a huge grey cloud rolled over the top of the U-162. The captain had been right; there was a bad storm on the way.
